


December Writing Challenge 2017

by Cinlat



Series: Tumblr Prompts & Drabbles [4]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Companionable Snark, Compromise, December Writing Challenge 2017, F/M, Family Fluff, Frenemies, Interrogation, Loss of Parent(s), Male-Female Friendship, Poor Life Choices, Reckless Behavior, Regret, Shenanigans, Sibling Rivalry, Smuggling, Space Pirates, Timeline What Timeline, a night in, embarrassing stories, family in the military, military life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 09:03:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 15,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12884547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinlat/pseuds/Cinlat
Summary: I accepted a challenge on Tumblr for a bunch of drabbles throughout the month of December. I'll probably add more tags as the month goes on, but these should be short, sweet, and fun.





	1. A Letter to Someone

**Author's Note:**

> Dec 01: A letter to someone.  
> Rating: G  
> Word Count: 487

_You. Are. An. Idiot._  

Fynta Wolfe sat back and stared at her datapad, tempted to leave the message there. It was no less than her brother deserved. She’d begun training to become a Republic soldier, and refused to allow his idiocy to ruin things now. While not ashamed of her upbringing, Fynta had chosen to keep her Mandalorian roots hidden from the recruiters. Running with bounty hunters was fun, but Fynta needed a purpose. She was a soldier, not a freelancer. Given her preference of avoiding Sith, the Republic seemed like the perfect avenue. Maybe, once she’d graduated and found a posting, Verin’s actions wouldn’t concern her as much. Surely the di’kut could’ve held off a little longer, right? 

With a humorless laugh, Fynta realized that no, he probably couldn’t. Verin spoke before he thought, often promising feats beyond his capabilities. Yet, somehow, he managed to pull them off. Usually through Cinlat’s quiet brilliance. 

Fynta rubbed two fingers over her eyes, then leaned forward to double check the encryption. The datapad was a burner and protected by an algorithm that Cinlat had written years ago. There was no way for it to be traced back to Fynta, provided she didn’t use names or locations. Taking a breath, Fynta began typing again. 

 _The idea was to lay low, not blow a Republic transport to hell. I’d ask what you were thinking, but I’m sure I already know the answer._  

Naturally, Verin would say that it wasn’t his fault. Fynta could hear his voice even now, parsecs away. He’d claim that Republic engineering was shoddy at best, or that at least he got all the passengers into escape pods first. Idly, Fynta wondered who his mark had been, then decided that she didn’t want to know.   

The holonews claimed that the job had been the work of one man, and Fynta barely stopped herself from asking about Cinlat’s whereabouts in her letter. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if the huntress had been there, the vessel would have remained intact. The old bounty hunter favored stealth and cold calculation over pyrotechnics.   

_I’ll be free in three more months. Do me a favor and try not to draw any more attention to yourself until then. And stay out of my crosshairs, ori’vod._

  _Ret'urcye mhi_  

The message was nothing more than a short databurst of information that would be lost in a stream of much larger ones. Fynta would send it as soon as the next regiment came in for the night. There would be mass, digital chaos as they called home or checked their mail, and her missive could slip through without notice. Fynta hoped it didn’t do the same for Verin. Not that he wouldn’t read it, just that her words would fail to make an impact. Fynta loved Verin, but no one had a harder head than her brother.   


	2. Dec 02: Traveling Aboard a Trans-dimensional Ship.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I almost ignored this one, but then decided that I was just being cowardly. So, this happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T (fictional swearing)  
> Word Count: 710

It made no sense, but since when had that ever been a deciding factor in Fynta’s life? She ran through the hallways of a broken ship, lights flickering while the acrid smell of an electrical fire seared her nostrils. A couple of hours ago, Fynta had attempted to find and neutralize the source of the threat, but she’d given up after realizing that it must be in another part of the vessel.

The sound of Fynta’s footsteps echoed in the empty corridors. Fynta wore no other armor than her PT shirt and shorts. Only her beskar boots had been available upon arrival in this strange place, though it hadn’t worried her. Somewhere, in the back of Fynta’s mind, a voice screamed that this was wrong, but she pressed on anyway.

Transparent panels lined the hallway, offering tantalizing glimpses of worlds beyond the ship, but none appealed to Fynta. She was searching for something, but a heavy cloud hung over her mind, making it difficult to remember anything outside of the baser need to run. At least, until she saw the snow-capped peaks of Alderaan.

“That’s it.” Fynta’s voice fell flat, swallowed by the thick air. She ignored it in favor of the sanctuary that she knew Alderaan held.  

Fynta ran at the panel, hurling herself against the doorway, only to bounce off with a dull thud that cause the entire wall to shimmer. She slid a few meters on her shoulder until finally coming to rest against the far wall.  

Standing again, Fynta approached more carefully. Her bare fingers splayed across the force shield and finding it unmoving. “Shab.”

Blaster fire sounded down the hallway, and Fynta spun towards it with her rifle raised. They were the first ambient sounds that she’d experienced, having spent her entire visit in complete silence. Without making the conscious decision, Fynta ran. The sounds of combat grew, and scorch marks marred the walls at increasing intervals the further she went.  

A green bolt struck the wall above Fynta’s head as she rounded a corner. It sparked, sizzling into the metal even as she threw herself against the opposite barrier. Readying her weapon, Fynta paused with the tip of her finger wrapped around the trigger.

Peeking around to survey her opposition, Fynta's breath caught at the sight of a fork in the passageway. She'd spent innumerable hours aboard this blasted ship and had never met anything but the smooth curve of a complete circle. Fynta stood and stalked forward to investigate this new oddity. All compulsions to defend herself forgotten.

Each branching corridor held another transparent panel. They shifted in a way that made Fynta’s stomach lurch, and she knew that she’d be able to pass through without hindrance. To the left lie the wartorn world of Ord Mantell. A Cathar barked orders to his subordinates, grinding his teeth in frustration as the mission slipped beyond his control.

To the right, lay the sprawling plains of Manda’yaim.  _ Home _ , a voice whispered. Fynta hadn’t seen her homeworld since she was a child. An unfamiliar ache drew her towards the amber fields and squat houses. The ancient city of Keldabe shifted into view. Figures in beskar’gam moved about with purpose or holding helmets under their arms while sharing a drink with clanmates.  

Fynta took a step towards Mandalore, but paused when a male voice called her name. A quick glance to the left chilled her blood as she met the glowing eyes of the Cathar. His facial markings were fierce, angry even, but Fynta felt no fear. Something about the way he stared her down, challenging, yet pleading, halted her steps. That Cathar was important, though Fynta couldn’t parse out what.

Taking a step back, Fynta weighed her options again. Both tugged at her in equal measure, promising a future that she’d never considered for herself. No sooner did one gain the advantage, then the other redoubled their efforts. Fynta felt as though she were being torn in half.

“Fierfek,” Fynta swore. Only one would provide true escape, but was she worthy?

Holding her breath, Fynta closed her eyes and ran. 


	3. Dec 03: Losing Something/Someone Very Important.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peek into Fynta’s past, the day she became clanless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 611
> 
> Mando’a translations can be found at the bottom

Fynta’s knees gave, and she slid to the floor with her head resting against the pilot’s seat of Verin’s can’gal. He’d scraped enough money together last year to purchase the starfighter, but had yet to name it. Her brother claimed that a name had to mean something, and he wouldn’t take that responsibility lightly. A broken sob escaped Fynta’s lips when she realized that her name meant nothing now. 

Verin rushed past after securing the docking ramp and slid into the only seat available on the small craft. His movement bumped the back of Fynta’s skull, but she barely noticed. Even as the engines revved, vibrating the floor beneath her, all Fynta could focus on was the blood splashed across her new beskar’gam. Her father’s blood.

Fynta removed a glove and scratched absently at the now flaky bits of red. She was thirteen, and had just passed her verd’gotten three weeks ago. Now, she was clanless and had joined the ranks of orphans scattered throughout the galaxy. Fynta knew that she was too young to understand the politics of what had just happened, but old enough to understand that she couldn’t go back. Resignation hollowed her emotions, and she didn’t want it to stop.

Suddenly, Verin’s face filled Fynta’s view. Placing both hands, cold and clammy, on her cheeks, he repeated the same phrase. It took her a few seconds to meet her brother’s eyes, and even longer to focus.

“Fynta, say something, damn you.” She’d just interpreted their meaning when his hand struck the side of her face. It wasn’t hard, but enough to ignite her temper.

Fynta shoved her brother away with an angry slur, and Verin’s features relaxed. “Thank the Manda, I thought you’d gone r’utreekov.” He inched forward again, squatting in front of her. “Are you injured?”

Fynta leveled him with a murderous glare, then sighed and shook her head. “Just bumps and bruises.”

With a thick exhale, Verin looked around the interior. “We’ll have to dump this soon, they know my ship.” While Mandalorians didn’t cling to worldly possessions like the rest of the galaxy, there was no mistaking the sense of loss in Verin’s voice. He’d worked hard for this starfighter, and had proven himself an apt pilot. Were it not for the unexpected massacre, Fynta was sure her brother would have ended up one of the Mand’alor’s best pilots.

Verin hesitated, staring straight ahead. “It’s just us now, you know that, right?”

Fynta closed her eyes, her father’s unseeing stare jumping to the forefront of her vision, then snapped them open again. She wanted to know why her clan had been attacked at a celebration of victory, but knew the answer wouldn’t satisfy her. Fynta allowed only one emotion to leak through the walls she carefully constructed around her heart: rage. She wanted the traitor’s blood to replace that of her buirbe.

“We need new identities,” Fynta responded, her voice muted in her own ears. There was no way of knowing how far into their clan this treachery stretched, it was beneath her people to act in such a way. “I want to hunt them down, Verin.” She turned towards her brother, only just noticing the cuts along the bridge of his nose and forehead where his helmet had struck unyielding flesh during the fight. “Will you help me?”

To Fynta’s surprise, Verin chuckled. “Skira,” he replied with a smile. That word lit a fire inside of Fynta like she hadn’t felt before. Never again would the galaxy catch her unawares, she’d be ready next time.

Standing, Verin offered Fynta a hand. “Come on, little wolf. Your first lesson it learning how to fly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can'gal [CAHN-gahl] starfighter   
> verd'goten [vaird-GOH-ten] the traditional rite of passage in which a Mandalorian youth was accepted as an adult. Literally: Soldier's birth   
> manda [MAHN-dah] the collective soul or heaven   
> r'utreekov [oo-TREE-kov] emptyheaded   
> Mand'alor [MAHN-dah-lor] sole ruler   
> buirbe [boo-EER] {be [beh] possessive suffix with nouns} parent's   
> skira [SKEE-rah] settling scores, revenge


	4. Dec 04: A Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Havoc Squad reminisces about their dumbest moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one went a little longer, but I couldn’t help myself. I love messing with these guys.  
> Word Count: 1144

Fynta and Jorgan sat in the conference room, rifle and blaster parts scattered across the table. It still amused Fynta to remember the time that her husband had used such an inspection as a way to test the waters in flirting. He’d improved a great deal over the intervening years. 

Aric huffed at the damaged trigger mechanism in his hands, and Fynta glanced up in time to notice the scar above his left eyebrow. She’d always wondered where it had come from, but had never gotten around to asking. With a nod, Fynta decided to sate her curiosity.

“Where did the scar on the side of your head come from?” Fynta wondered if Aric had others that were covered by his fur, and marveled at how deeply that particular one must have cut to leave such a distinct outline.

Jorgan’s hand went immediately to the marred skin, then smirked. “This may be hard to believe, but I was worse with women in my younger days than I am now.”

“That’s pretty bad, boss,” Cormac interjected, flopping into the seat beside Jorgan. Fynta grinned when the Cathar’s spine went straight, as if being caught slacking. He cut his eyes at the big man in annoyance. Cormac ignored the glare and waved a hand. “So, what did you do?”

With a resigned sigh, Aric continued. “We were going to a dance, and my date wasn’t ready on time.” Fynta winced, guessing where this story was heading. Judging by the laughter trying to break free, Cormac did too. “When she finally arrived, I asked how such a simple outfit could take so long to put on.”

Aric’s lips pressed into a thin line when a snicker escaped Cormac’s restraints. “She was holding a datapad when she slapped me. I even remember the still of some new makeup application procedure on the screen before it hit me.”

It was Fynta who broke the silence, not Cormac. She slapped a hand over her mouth when Aric ground his teeth and scrubbed the newly acquired slide with more vigor than necessary. “I promise not to wear makeup on any of our dates, riduur,” Fynta teased, and was pleased to see the slight quirk at the corner of Aric’s mouth.

Cormac slapped the Cathar on the back with a broad grin. “Women are insane, mate.” The big man rolled up his sleeve to reveal an impressive biceps and pointed to a thin, pale line etched into his tan skin. “Got this when I was twelve. The little girl I was seeing got pissed when she found out that I was also running around with her best friend, and stabbed me with a fork.”

Cormac’s good humor melted suddenly, and his entire body went rigid. “Which I absolutely don’t do anymore. I was an idiot in my youth.”

Fynta and Jorgan looked in the direction of Cormac’s horrified stare to find Dorne leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. It was almost as amusing to watch Cormac scramble his way out of the hole he’d just dug as it was to unearth Aric’s terrible history with women. Still, Fynta took pity on the man, he was her best friend, after all.

“What about you, Dorne, any interesting scars?” Fynta offered a wink to Cormac’s appreciative nod.

“Just the one,” Dorne answered. She pushed off the frame and settled next to Fynta, refusing to look at her husband. “I had my gallbladder removed shortly after joining Imperial service. But, the scars are negligible.”

Vik and Yuun followed shortly after, and Fynta marveled at the fact that the Weequay always seemed to know when they had gathered to share embarrassing stories. She wouldn’t put it past him to have bugged the conference room. Yuun simply trailed through life, more often than not, in Vik’s shadow. The two had an unusual relationship.

“I’ve got one on my ass,” Vik grunted. “Wanna’ see?”

“I’ve seen it,” Dorne answered in a droll tone. “It’s not very impressive.”

Cormac burst into another fit of laughter while Vik muttered a curse in what sounded like a variation of Huttese. Jorgan ignored them all, and Yuun carried on about scars showing us the mistakes to avoid in the future. Finally, Cormac set his sights on Fynta. “What about you, boss-lady? You’ve got an impressive collection. Any stupid or embarrassing stories to go along with them?”

Dorne snorted, which was an uncharacteristic reaction for the posh medic, when Cormac mentioned the word stupid. Mostly because she knew that most of Fynta’s scars had been the result of recklessness in some way or another. Fynta preferred to accredit it to thinking on her feet, or being insanely lucky, that she hadn’t been killed yet. Whichever.

Cormac leaned across the table and touched a perfect line of raised skin on Fynta’s exposed forearm. “What about this one?”

Fynta glanced at it, thought for a moment, then chuckled. “Cinlat shot me.” Absolute silence followed her statement, and when Fynta looked up again, all eyes were on her. She laughed again. “I kind of deserved it, and it was just a graze.”

“Gonna’ share, or leave us to fill in the blanks,” Vik protested, crossing his arms and leaning so far back in the chair that it creaked under his weight.

“I was fifteen, I think, shortly before I signed up with the Republic. I don’t remember why, but I--stumbled--across Cinlat’s stash of hard alcohol, then into the weapons locker.” Fynta shrugged, pulling the slide back on a blaster pistol before flipping the lever that would lock it in place and letting it spring forward. She set the weapon down and ran a finger over the scar in question. “Verin and Cinlat had different methods of negotiating my stand down. He tried to talk to me; Cinlat took me out of commission. I swear, I don’t remember any of it.”

“Damn boss,” Cormac huffed a light laugh. “You must have been seriously sloshed.”

Fynta leveled the big man with an eyebrow raise, “I didn’t have as much experience back then as I do now. Don’t get any ideas.”

Vik burst into laughter, making Elara jump. “I’d have loved to have seen that, the little woman packs one hell of a punch.” The Weequay, of course, had been on the receiving end of Cinlat’s ire before, and no doubt believed every word of Fynta’s story.

Fynta offered a wide grin. “I’m sure I can arrange a repeat. Just give me time.” 

The conversation moved on to other topics, and Fynta ran a hand over the marred skin with a sense of nostalgia. It was a reminder that she hadn’t spoken to the pair of bounty hunters in a few months. After she finished with the weapons, maybe she’d send her brother a message, just to make sure the di’kut was still alive.


	5. Dec 05: Discovering A New Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Theron and Fynta get in over their heads. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 760  
> A/N: It’s 4am, I can’t sleep, and have a long day of work ahead of me. So, have Fynta and Theron arguing during an interrogation.

The punch spun Fynta in a complete circle. Her shoulders ached from being suspended above her head for nearly an hour, and her patience was wearing thin. She slowed halfway through the next rotation to find Theron trussed up in a similar fashion and looking annoyed, if not mildly bruised.

“Oh look, it’s a tunnel. Let’s go explore, Theron,” the agent mocked in a higher pitch that was probably meant to imitate Fynta’s voice.

“That’s _not_ what I sound like,” she argued. “And, that’s part of being on patrol, discovering new places and,” she grimaced when the next strike grazed her ribs, “Meeting new people.”

“It,” Theron’s words cut off with a grunt when the pirate drove his fist into the SIS agent’s stomach, but it wasn’t enough to completely halt Theron’s argument. “Is too. For the record, patrol also means waiting for backup, something you’ve never been particularly skilled at.”

Fynta’s growl of annoyance turned into a yelp when the interrogator struck her side, sending waves of dull pain throughout the entire right half of her body. She ignored the man and grit her teeth. “You didn’t have to follow. It’s not my fault that you’re lousy in a fight.”

Theron released a sardonic laugh, angling his head over his shoulder while spinning in a slow circle. “I only tagged along to make sure you didn’t get yourself killed. Next time, I’ll be smarter." He let out a frustrated groan. "You’re a walking disaster, Fynta.”

“Finally figuring that out after so many years together?” Fynta shot back, tensing her stomach muscles in preparation for the next blow. She wasn’t sure if it helped anymore, but it gave her some satisfaction when the pirate shook out his hand after hitting her.

An older man with grey hair streaking the sides of his head, but not a strand on top, stepped between Fynta and Theron. He regarded them, then shook his head. “You are the strangest couple I’ve ever met,” he remarked in an accent that Fynta couldn’t place.

“We are so _not_ a couple,” Theron replied at the same time that Fynta began laughing.

Sensing an opening, their eyes met, and Theron gave an almost imperceptible nod. Together, the prisoners kicked out, planting their feet firmly on opposite sides of the old man’s head, then pushing off. The pirate’s legs gave and he crumpled while Fynta spun around to land a solid kick to her interrogator's jaw.

When she swung back, Theron braced both feet against her hip and shoved, sending Fynta careening into a third pirate who had only just begun to fumble for his blaster. Her body slammed into him, wrenching her shoulders, but knocking their assailant to the ground. A lucky rock caught his head, rendering the man unconscious.

Fynta’s trajectory carried her back to Theron like a pendulum, and they crashed into one another with a mutual snarl of pain. “Is that all of them,” she asked once she'd caught her breath.

“As best as my sensors can tell,” Theron answered. “These guys aren’t too bright, they should have fried those first.”

“Don’t give them ideas,” Fynta replied. She climbed hand over hand up the rope until she reached the metal hook that kept her from touching the ground. One more quick jerk, and Fynta’s feet thumped back to the cave floor. She groaned at the impact and flexed her shoulders carefully.

Theron landed a moment later, stalking over to where their weapons had been piled against the wall. “I’m getting too old for this,” he complained as he sawed through the restraints.

Fynta followed his lead, then proceeded to don her weapons, finding comfort in their familiar weight. “Look on the bright side, Shan. We’ve found a previously unknown threat.”

Theron snorted and headed for the cave entrance. “I wouldn’t call them a threat. More like their smuggling ring was getting in the way of our smuggling ring.”

They paused at the opening, and Theron threw his hand out when Fynta began down the animal trail leading back towards the base. “I’ll navigate this time, your judgment sucks.”

Fynta offered a broad grin as a reminder that he’d once been such a judgment call. Theron rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath as he pulled out a compass and began the trek home. Fynta followed, but she couldn’t help herself.

“This was just like old times,” she teased, then continued when he ignored her. “Admit it, Shan, I keep your life interesting.” Theron’s muttered curse was anything but friendly, and it pleased Fynta immensely.


	6. Dec 06: On A Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Verin has two women in his life. One he plans to marry, and the little sister who vexes him. Fynta learns all of her lessons the hard way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 433  
> A/N: This just seemed like something a young Fynta would do, she was as much of a disaster as a teenager as she is today. Mando’a translations at the bottom.

“Are you  _sure_  you tagged him?” Verin asked as he, Fynta, and Cinlat stalked through the thick jungles of Kashyyyk. Her faceplate turned towards him, and Verin knew that his little sister had just leveled him with her most sarcastic glare.

“Yes, or’dinii” Fynta snapped from the head of their formation. She held a small rifle in the crook of her elbow to allow access to the readout on her forearm plate. “Shot him in the shebs at close range. He won’t be digging that tracker out anytime soon.”

Verin fell silent, ignoring Fynta in favor of admiring the woman in front of him. Cinlat moved like a predator, stepping lighter in her beskar’gam than he could barefoot. One day, he'd win her over, and she'd finally agree to be his wife.

“Blood,” Cinlat stated in a bored tone, nodding towards a painted leaf.

Fynta doubled back and squatted mutely. Cinlat was the only person in the galaxy that could silence Verin’s little sister with only a word. The huntress hadn’t shown herself to be much for conversation, so when she chose to speak, the Wolfe siblings listened.

Once or twice, and with ample amounts of sweets, Verin had goaded Cinlat into speaking more than her daily allotment of words. He’d known that she was a Great Hunt champion, but Verin had been astounded by some of the stories she told. Cinlat particularly relished the retelling of killing her arch rival by leaving him on a burning ship. Verin had tried to kiss her that night, but she’d pulled away. The next morning, Cinlat acted like nothing has happened.

“That’s too much for a tracker,” Cinlat answered to a question that Verin hadn’t heard. But, he understood the implications.

Verin looked over the women’s shoulders, then towards the west. He spotted more blood, and followed it to a clearing of flattened shrubbery. “Fyn’ika, you sure you shot him with the right gun?”

Fynta pushed to her feet and stomped forward to stand by her brother. “Of course--oh.”

When Verin glanced at his sister, he realized that she was almost as tall as him, and in desperate need of a new set of armor. Cinlat followed, stepping around Verin to see what the two were staring at. She gave a disgusted snort, then shook her head.

“I could have sworn I shot him with the tracker.” Fynta checked her holster, then her shoulders tensed. “We still get paid for a corpse, right?”

“Yes,” Cinlat answered. “But, ten thousand less. You get to drag the body back.”

Verin slapped the back of Fynta’s helmet even as Cinlat turned towards the ship. “Watch out for Wookies, vod’ika.” To her credit, Fynta didn’t argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a:  
> or'dinii [Ohr-DEE-nee] moron  
> shebs [shebs] ass  
> beskar'gam [BES-kar-GAM] armor  
> vod'ika [vohd-EE-kah] little sister


	7. Dec 07: Feeling Left Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reason why Fynta doesn’t trust the original plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 546

Fynta paced around her cell, growling at the figures scattered below. She should be down there, fighting guards and devising clever means of escape. Instead, she was stuck in a ten by ten box watching her brilliance unfold without her. 

The plan had been simple: get arrested on the fringe of Imperial territory with the wrong paperwork, have a planted man alter Fynta’s sentencing, then find her SIS contact inside the prison. According to intelligence, there was an Imperial inside willing to turn on his masters. Fynta’s job had been to infiltrate and facilitate the escape of the man and his SIS handler. Later, she’d slip out in the chaos and rendezvous at the appointed location. Everything had gone perfectly, until the Warden threw her into solitary confinement. 

Fynta had started a brawl with the worst criminal gang she could find to serve as a distraction. Which, to be honest, hadn’t been that bad. As far as prisons went, this one was a fairly cushy joint for disgraced nobles and ransom worthy prisoners of war. Except for solitary, of course. The amount of creativity shown in this one aspect of the complex was truly impressive.

Had someone warned her that solitary confinement was a transparent box suspended thirty meters in the air, Fynta might have revised her plan. She’s never met a lock she couldn’t pick, and this one was no acception. The problem was, that even should she escape, there was literally nowhere to go. Scaling the wire holding her cage was an option, but the prison’s sharpshooters would pick her off instantly. 

Alarms blared across the compound, and Fynta squatted to watch the commotion beneath her feet. The cage swayed in the wind, causing Fynta to shift with it to keep her balance. The glass surfaces offered zero protection from the cold, and there were no amenities apart from a fantastic view of the sunset.

Coming to the conclusion that she wouldn’t be participating in this prison break, Fynta flopped onto her ass and propped her chin in her hand to watch the entertainment. She squinted at the figures dashing about and tried to pinpoint who was who. The guards opened fire on a group who’d been stupid enough to run as a pack (Fynta surmised that they were probably the gang she’d started the fight with) and half fell in the first burst.

Mostly, Fynta studied the people skirting the walls in search of weaknesses. One or two of those should be her objective, though she could tell from this distance. Any SIS agent worth their salt would either stick to the shadows, or walk out the front door like they owned the place. Fynta got the impression her that guy was the sticky sort.

Sitting in her perch, high above the action, Fynta couldn’t help but feel a little annoyed at her bad luck. With a huff, Fynta realized that she'd be up here until the riot settled and the prison was back under control. To hell with plans, Fynta thought with a rueful smirk. They’d have to put her back on the ground eventually, then she’d figure something out. Hopefully, her friends had taken advantage of the distraction she provided. It would be annoying to have to do it all again.


	8. Dec 07: Facing Something They're Afraid Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fynta faces an uncertain future where more than just her life is on the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many of you know that Fynta lost her leg in Family Is More Than Blood, and while I covered some of her rehab there, I never got around to exploring her feelings on the matter.

Fynta stared at the dark ceiling of their hotel room. The ever present sound of traffic from the sleepless skylanes pulled her attention towards the window. Lights flicked on like stars against a still black sky as Coruscant readied to meet the new day. Yet, the beauty lost all meaning in the wake of what she must face.

Sighing slightly, Fynta’s attention returned to the single water stain above her, watching shadows dance until it looked like the imperfection itself moved with a rhythm. In a few hours, she and Aric would meet with two of the greatest minds in the galaxy. She’d surrender herself to their brilliance while they rebuilt her missing left leg. A shudder passed through her at the mere thought of so much technological hardware being attached to her body.

Fynta was unable to sleep in any other position than on her back now. The loss of her leg threw the confident soldier balance off in ways she’d never expected. Fynta had to relearn how to sit, sleep, and even eat with a center of gravity that was always tempted to lean towards the least resistant side.

Aric dozed on Fynta’s right, careful to avoid brushing against her still tender hip. His chin propped on her shoulder, breath tickling her ear and neck. One arm rested possessively across Fynta’s stomach, and his leg draped over hers. She willed Aric’s body heat to soothe her achingly tense muscles. Focusing on his steady breathing, Fynta forced herself to relax and settled closer to her husband.

“Have you slept at all?” Aric’s husky voice was low, but it still sent a pang of surprise through Fynta. She stopped short of flinching, but not soon enough to avoid the low throb throughout her left side.

Scowling at the ceiling, Fynta lied. “Just woke up.”

Aric snorted and propped on one elbow to stare down at Fynta with incredulous eyes. “Want to talk about it?” When she pressed her lips together, he sighed. “At least tell me what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” Fynta snapped too quickly. Aric raised a brow, barely visible in the darkness, and she cursed him silently. He’d learned that from her, and was damn good at it too.

“I don’t know,” Fynta finally admitted, looking away from her husband.

They lay in silence, Aric gently stroking a hand over Fynta's stomach until she finally gave in. “I can’t believe I’m about to turn my body into a machine.” She’d always disliked implants. They were unnatural and dangerous. She'd seen implants turned against their owners too many times while working for the SIS. In Fynta’s mind, the risk outweighed the reward.

“You aren’t,” Aric said simply. He gently tugged Fynta closer, allowing her to move at her own pace, and didn’t speak again until she’d settled. “You’re gaining a new leg. It will only do what you tell it to, Fynta. It doesn’t record government secrets or slice into computer networks. It’s just a leg. The only access it needs to your nervous system is the one that tells it how to move.”

Fynta still wouldn’t meet Aric’s gaze, but she felt his hand lift, and heard his muffled sigh as he ran it down his face. When he set it lightly on her stomach again, his voice carried a resigned note. “We can still call it off.”

The pain in Aric’s voice twisted Fynta’s emotions. Anger, terror, and guilt warred for purchase even as the logical part of her mind clung to the surface. Denying this opportunity meant losing Havoc Squad. Fynta would be relegated to a desk and rarely see her aliit. Aric would be alone. _It’s just a leg_ , logic whispered in the back of her mind. _People get them every day_.

A weight lifted temporarily from Fynta’s soul. Having this surgery was the right choice, she just needed a reminder sometimes. “Garza approved your leave, right?” She asked, finally facing her husband.

Aric nodded gravely, “I won’t be here the entire time, but we’ll have a month to sort the basics out. Together.”

“It’ll be worth it in the end,” Fynta assured herself.

Aric kissed Fynta’s forehead, then slid from their bed. “We’re both awake, no since sulking around here for the next few hours.” When Fynta balanced on her elbows to watch him dress, her husband offered one of the uncharacteristic grins that she loved so much. The kind that showed a lot of sharp teeth.

“Since we can’t kill time with caf or breakfast,” Aric continued, and Fynta’s heart leapt before he finished the sentence. There were few things that her Cathar mate considered properly distracting, and two were out the window until after surgery. “How about we hit the firing range?”

“You know me so well, riduur.” The mere thought of blasting the osik out of something brought a grin to Fynta’s face. She sat up carefully to avoid toppling out of bed and waved for her own clothes draped over the hoverchair. Tomorrow, she’d stand again. She just had to get through today.


	9. Dec 10: A Turning Point In Their Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fynta makes a choice to try something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 663  
> A/N: This actually came from a conversation with @salaciouscrumpet about whether or not Fynta made a conscious decision to choose monogamy out of respect for Jorgan, if it was something she truly believed in, or if she just fell into the lifestyle without thought.

Monogamy had never been a lifestyle that Fynta considered for herself. Sex was a tool, enjoyable, but a tool nonetheless. It was what she used to get information from a target, blow off some steam after a long day, as a distraction, or even a form of procrastination at times. She’d never put any thought into long-term relationships or who her partner was in the moment. It simply didn't matter.

Fynta rarely attached sentiment to a tryst. Feelings of loyalty and friendship were shown on the battlefield when the life of someone she cared about depended on her performance as a soldier. Fynta's body was separate from her emotions. Until now.

As Fynta watched the grumpy lieutenant inventory Havoc Squad’s weapons cache, her mind wandered. She’d enjoyed messing with Jorgan from the day that he joined the squad. Mostly, it had been as a way to break the ice from their disastrous first meeting. After they became squadmates, Fynta amused herself with the variation of contortions his facial patterns could make. They ranged from embarrassment to dumbfounded, then slowly morphed into sly half-grins and challenging stares.

There was no denying Jorgan’s appeal, but Cathar mated for life. Commitment to a single person had never been a priority for Fynta. Hell, she’d never imagined that she’d live long enough for it to become a possibility. However, they’d reached a crossroads. Aric had given Fynta a gift to test the depth of her interest. While the galaxy accepted interspecies relationships without hesitation, she had no doubt that a Mandalorian and Cathar would raise more than a few eyebrows. But, Aric made sense. He was a warrior, loyal to his squad, and fully capable of beating Fynta in a fight.

Jorgan’s interest grew daily, and he was better at flirting than Fynta expected. Though, the awkward moments were still her favorites. The Cathar approached their relationship like a predator cutting off avenues of escape before pouncing. It was slow and methodical; in direct contrast to her own method.

Fynta briefly let herself envision growing old with one man. She'd never again explore other options or sate casual curiosity. What would it be like to know someone so thoroughly that it was no longer possible to tell where one began, and the other ended?

Fynta had a decision to make, and soon. Once the Thunderclap dropped out of hyperspace, she’d meet with the dashing Jonas Balkar to begin untangling this Deadeye fiasco. The SIS agent was handsome, roguish, and suave; the perfect candidate for a _distraction_. If Fynta caved to Balkar’s charms, any progress made with Jorgan would be lost. In turn, if she decided to wait, then she’d be in for one hell of a dry spell. Fynta wondered if any man was worth that amount of frustration.

Jorgan turned, datapad in hand, and startled when he noticed Fynta leaning against the doorframe. His eyes lit, and a slight smile curved the Cathar's lips. “Need something?”

The realization that Aric was genuinely pleased to see her send a jolt through Fynta. His normally stern features held an amused half-smile that she’d come enjoy. Then, it grew into something resembling a proper grin when Fynta continued to stare.

Aric closed the distance between them, stopping close enough that Fynta could smell the woodsy musk that clung to him. He offered the datapad with a raised brow, and Fynta almost laughed at the subtlety of his advance. Jorgan stood a little too close to be proper and towered in a way meant to showcase his masculinity. It was the most unusual method of getting a girl’s attention that Fynta had ever seen, but it never failed to quicken her pulse.

Meeting his eyes, Fynta offered a wide grin in acknowledgment of Aric’s brashness. Her decision made, she turned on her heel without accepting his report. She crossed the room with a purpose to prepare for her rendezvous with only one thought in mind.

Aric Jorgan was worth it.


	10. Dec 11: Interacting With A Member of the Empire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fynta and Zolah decide whether or not to continue their earlier scuffle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 397 (I think this is a record for me)
> 
> A/N: It has been a very long day, and that makes for a short fic. For those who have read _Family Is More Than Blood,_ this is following the showdown between Fynta and Zolah on Rishi. Because my imagination is broken but my OCD won’t let me skip it. :P

Fynta eyed the Chiss openly as a challenge. Of course, Zolah knew this and took great pains to ignore the Republic Commando. At last, Fynta reached the end of her limited patience and crossed her arms. “So, are we going to finish this?”

Zolah busied herself straightening the hut had used during their stay in Rishi Village. The Imperial agent hadn’t uttered more than two words since Theron’s rescue. Once the command to move back to Raider’s Cove had been given, Zolah worked tirelessly to scrub every molecule of the small alliances' presence from existence. 

Fynta intentionally stayed back, watching the way the other woman moved. A person could learn a lot about their opponent’s fighting style by observing how they completed simple tasks such as switching a cloth from one hand to the other while wiping a service. She paid careful attention to Zolah's footwork, noting that she placed more weight on the balls of her feet. Everything Fynta gleaned from the exercise gave voice to a woman who could hold her own. As if their skirmish from before hadn’t been proof enough.

“I don’t believe so,” Zolah finally answered after the silence had stretched too long. It left Fynta off balance as her mind reeled to find what she’d missed.

For the first time, the former Cipher agent met Fynta’s gaze. “While I do not consider you a friend, we are about to be united under one banner--officially.” The Chiss paused, tilting her head and narrowing fathomless red eyes at her. “And, I do believe that you’ll be far more entertaining alive.”

Fynta, arms still crossed, offered an amused smirk. “Not to mention, it would probably upset Theron if you killed me.”

“Only because he finds you useful,” Zolah retorted, but there was a faint hint of laughter in her voice. Then, the Chiss offered a grin that showed stark white teeth against pale blue lips. “Although, I believe even he struggles with that particular choice sometimes.”

Fynta sighed and dropped her arms. “Yeah, I’m sure he does.” Theron had certainly threatened to shoot her enough times over the years they’d known one another. Straightening her shoulders, Fynta nodded towards her unlikely ally. “Good, because you’re one hell of a fighter. It’d be a shame to deprive the galaxy of you so soon.”

Zolah’s smile broadened impossibly, giving her a manic expression. “Likewise, Major Wolfe.”


	11. Dec 12: Spending Time With Their Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balic Cormac is a big cinnamon roll who will do absolutely anything for his wife. Especially if he gets to play with explosives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 1115
> 
> Killing two stories with one prompt here. I had a request from a reader on FFN for Vik and Cormac to display their pyrotechnic prowess for Elara, and freak Jorgan out. So, here you go Gehatik, sorry it took so long.

“You got the stuff?” Cormac asked, tiptoeing through the mansion towards the balcony. He hefted the box in his arms, careful not to rattle it. “I really don’t want to make another trip.”

“Just shut up and keep walking,” Vik growled. Cormac knew that the only reason the Weequay had chosen to accompany him on this venture was because ‘he got to blow shit up,' as Vik had eloquently put it.

A servant’s slippered feet scuffed along the hallway, and Cormac pressed himself against the wall to avoid being seen. Vik rolled his eyes and bolled past. “Come on, they already know what we’re doing.”

Sure, the Organa’s knew what Cormac had planned, but he’d neglected to mention it to Fynta or Jorgan. Mostly because they’d probably forbid it, and then he’d have to disobey a direct order. Elara wouldn’t appreciate that, and this whole charade was about her, to begin with.

“How much further,” Vik grunted under the weight of his burden. Cormac had packed everything into two boxes, trusting that the equally large men could bear the load in one trip. As his arms shook, Cormac began to doubt his plan.

“Not much,” Cormac answered. He watched the tendrils on the back of Vik’s head sway as the man leaned back to get a better handle on his package. Cormac wondered if those protrusions offered any specific purpose, or if they were cosmetic. Maybe Weequay women found them enticing, but Cormac certainly didn’t see the appeal.

Vik stopped abruptly, causing Cormac to pull up short to avoid running into the man. They deposited their boxes on the balcony, and Cormac looked out over the Organa estate. “This is perfect,” he said with a grin. The view was fantastic, and there wouldn’t be a single citizen that wouldn’t be able to see the display.

It took another three hours to wire all the components together, but finally, Vik and Cormac stood back to admire their work. “This is gonna’ be good,” Vik rumbled, hefting the detonator in one hand.

“Oh yeah. Come on, let’s go find the others.” Cormac had ignored two hails from Fynta, which she couldn’t be too pissed about because she hadn’t found him yet. The major had finally left a message telling him to meet them in the courtyard for the beginning of the celebration.

As they headed for the lifts, Vik smacked Cormac's arm. “You’re grinning like a damn fool. Dorne will know something is up the moment she sees your idiot face.” He was right, of course, but Cormac couldn’t help himself.

Stepping off the elevator, Cormac inhaled the sweet scents of more desserts than he could distinguish. “It’s nice of the Organa’s to invite Havoc to their Life Day celebration.”

“Even better that they’re letting us blow up a balcony,” Vik chuckled.

Cormac stopping short and put his hands on his hips. “We aren’t blowing up the balcony. It’s just a few fireworks to put people in a celebratory mood.” Not to mention, a surprise for his wife. Elara had mentioned when they first arrived that she’d never seen a large firework show. Of course, Cormac couldn’t let that stand.

As the soldiers entered the courtyard, Fynta waved them towards a standing table reserved especially for Havoc Squad. Elara tilted her head, curiosity swirling behind her grey eyes. Cormac kissed her to preempt any questions she might have to avoid giving away the finale. He'd never been great at keeping secrets.

The evening wore on with only a couple of eyebrow raises from Fynta, but no one commented on Cormac and Vik’s earlier absence. Finally, after the final course had been served, the dancers departed, and the sun fully set, it was time.

Cormac glanced at Vik, who fingered the detonator in his palm under the table. At a nod, the Weequay grinned and depressed the button. Flame of every color lept into the air, exploding in vivid displays that caused more than a few patrons to shield their eyes. The previously black heavens were now an array of brilliant color and sparks that brought a smile to the faces around Cormac, including the woman he’d waited all evening to see.

“I’m assuming you two had something to do with this?” Fynta commented with a smirk. She had a discreet hand on Jorgan’s elbow. The Cathar flinched with each new explosion, his jaw tight, but had yet to swear at either of his subordinates. Cormac took that as a good sign.

“Yep,” Cormac answered proudly. He paused, his voice drowned out by a finale that seemed to last forever. When it finished, the sky still held the ghost of bright lights lingering in the smoke left behind. The crowd applauded, and Vik offered mock bows to people who had no idea that he was responsible. Cormac chuckled at the Weequay before continuing. “Anyway, Elara mentioned that she’d never seen a fireworks show, so Vik and I put our heads together to make it happen.”

Elara’s quiet laugh sounded on the verge of a giggle, and Cormac looked at her in confusion. She cleared her throat and smiled. “It was lovely, Balic, really.”

“But?” Cormac prompted. He could tell there was one coming..

“I grew up in Dromund Kaas, and have been privy to many such grandiose performances. I’m not sure where--”

“The flier,” Cormac answered before his wife could finish her sentence. “The one in the main hall advertising the celebration.”

Elara blinked, brow furrowed, then she sucked in a breath and laughed in earnest. “Yes, that holo did display fireworks, didn’t it?” Cormac knew he was missing something important, and glared at Fynta when she snickered.

Placing a gentle hand on Cormac’s arm, Elara’s smile softened. “During my years as a Republic soldier, I’ve received posting in minor worlds far too downtrodden or poor to enjoy a proper Life Day celebration.”

“Oh,” Cormac muttered, the pieces slipping into place. Then, it clicked. “Oh.” Elara had never been to a world that had the means to enjoy Life Day on the scale of Alderaan or Coruscant. She’d been looking forward to a glamorous evening.

Heat flooded Cormac’s face, and he offered a sheepish grin. “I’m a bit thick, sometimes.”

Fynta threw a wadded up napkin at him, laughing, while Vik muttered something that sounded vaguely insulting. However, Elara pulled Cormac into a tender kiss, and everyone else melted away. The fireworks had worked perfectly, even if it hadn’t impacted his wife the way he expected. Cormac figured he wasn’t in trouble unless he stopped trying to impress the love of his life, and she was more than worth the risk of making a fool of himself for.


	12. Dec 13: Reuniting With A Loved One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balic Cormac finally gets the reunion he’s waited so patiently for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 686
> 
> A/N: Mild spoilers for the latest chapters of Heart On A Trigger. This drabble was suggested by Dimigex, who reminded me that when I need a fluff piece, Cormac is my guy.

Cormac stared through the forward viewport as Coruscant slowly filled his sight. Alderaan might be his homeworld, but at this moment in time, the busy city planet below was home. He cursed silently when Havoc’s landing was delayed for a government docking procedure, then again when Kanner relayed that the spaceport was filled to capacity because a fleet departure had been pushed back.

Balic hadn’t seen his wife and son in two months, there was no telling how big Tayl had gotten during that time. Not only was Cormac excited about the upcoming time with his family, but Tayl had learned how to walk. According to Elara, the boy never slowed down. Balic hated that he’d missed it, but he had a duty to serve the Republic. One Elara understood. 

While Havoc split their time between babysitting the local government and running black ops missions into Imperial space, Elara traveled through the Core Worlds on secretive errands for Commander Malcom. Cormac had asked once, but his wife apparently worked above his pay grade now. Elara knew how to word a sentence to let him know that she was safe without giving details, but it kept her busy. Their leave rarely overlapped for longer than a few hours.

This time would be different. Malcom had greenlit Elara to be out of contact for seventy-two glorious hours, while simultaneously fanagalling Havoc to be planetside as well. Cormac assumed it had to do with the fact that Malcom never got the chance to bond with his own sin, and didn’t want Tayl falling into a similar circumstance on his conscience. The might like look like he could rip you apart with his bare hands, but Cormac bet there was a softer side hidden away somewhere.

“Hey,” Torg said, slapping Balic’s arm. “Going to stare at the hangar all day, or get out there and see your family?”

Cormac blinked, then realized that he’d completely missed their landing while lost in his own thoughts. Balic punched the Kaleesh playfully, then rushed through the main room to line up at the airlock. He paused in the process of lifting his pack when he caught sight of Jorgan.

The Cathar hunched over his desk in the commander’s cabin, a stack of datapads arrayed neatly on the corner. “Staying in again, boss?”

Jorgan glanced up, then to the indicated workload. “Yeah, got some catching up to do. Give Dorne my best.”

Normally, Cormac wouldn’t stand for that sort of antisocial behavior from his longtime friend. However, this weekend was about his family. While Jorgan qualified, Cormac simply wanted to hole up with his wife and son for a few days. The impulse made him feel like a right bastard, but just this once, he squashed it.

“Will do, sir. Take care of yourself.” Telling Jorgan to have fun would have been a waste of breath. The man barely smiled since Fynta’s disappearance, and Cormac didn’t blame him.

Rushing through the ship, Cormac cleared the loading ramp in three strides and looked around the hangar. His heart thundered against his ribs with each passing second of being unable to find his family.

“Buir!”

The raging storm in Cormac’s chest ground to a sudden halt, then exploded with pure joy at the sight of a chubby toddler lumbering awkwardly across the bay. Cormac slung his pack over his shoulder just in time to scoop his young son off the floor. “Tayl’ika, look how big you are.”

Cormac didn’t fight the tears that trailed down his cheeks as he smothered Tayl in kisses. Seconds later, a dainty hand rested on Balic’s forearm, and he blinked blurry eyes to find Elara smiling. Cormac pulled her into an embrace without weakening his hold and Tayl and simply breathed them in.

The time and distance that separated them suddenly overwhelmed Cormac. Squeezing his eyes shut, Balic wondered how he’d survived the last two months without his wife and son. When Elara made a soothing sound, Cormac choked on his emotions. Holding his wife and son tightly, he took a settling breath and whispered, “I missed you both so much.”


	13. Dec 14: Relaxing After a Long Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night off is more complicated than it should be for the commanders of Havoc Squad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two for one! Yesterday got away from me, but I really wanted to write the prompt, so I did them both today. 
> 
> Word Count: 498
> 
> A/N: I’ve been married for twelve years, and this is basically how our dates go every time

Jorgan slumped onto the foot of their bed with a groan and began unclasping his boots. Fynta grinned, refusing to admit that she was every bit as sore and exhausted as her Cathar husband. Havoc Squad had the night off after a day of overseeing a plethora of new recruits on Voss. They were all fresh from training, and Havoc found themselves between missions. Naturally, the local Brass saw it as an opportunity they couldn’t pass up.

“You know they’ve got a guest house set up for us,” Fynta commented with a lifted brow. She glanced at Aric’s shoes meaningfully. “I hear it has a nice bed.”

“You’re joking,” Jorgan sneered. “After the scrutiny Havoc has been under, you want to risk sneaking around in a guesthouse?”

Fynta chuckled. “Where is your sense of adventure?” Jorgan offered an incredulous glare as a response, and Fynta threw her hands up. “Alright, so we’ll stay on the Thunderclap, then.”

Satisfied that he’d won, Aric threw himself back on the bed with a sigh. “I’m too old to be chasing these kids around.” He wiggled his toes and winced.

For some reason, Fynta found that hilarious. Her laughter carried her to the bed, and she crawled next to her husband. “Well, since we’re staying in, that means dinner is out. What do you want to do?” She rested a hand on his stomach and tugged at the shirt.

“Tempting,” Aric responded with a slight smile. “But that requires energy that I don’t have tonight.”

Fynta propped her chin on Jorgan’s chest and puffed air through her lips. She preferred not to give into fatigue until she couldn’t stand anymore, whereas Aric was smarter. He paced himself, instead of crashing.

One, clear eye opened, and Jorgan smirked. “Bored already?”

“Not bored, just–thinking,” Fynta lied. She wanted to do something, or eat something, but none of the food in the galley sounded appetizing. Likewise, nothing aboard the Thunderclap sounded entertaining.

With another sigh, Jorgan pushed into a sitting position. “If I get Cormac to smuggle some food in, will you stop pouting?” Fynta nodded vigorously, not even attempting to deny the accusation. 

“I’ll help you clean the weapons as payment,” Fynta added, noting the gleam of interest in her husband’s eyes. It wasn’t her favorite task, but having something to keep his hands busy usually loosened Aric’s tongue. They’d had more than a few serious conversations over the broken down components of blasters.

“How about a compromise,” Jorgan stated, reaching for his comm on the desk. “Cormac brings us food, we clean only the weapons we used this week, then watch a movie.”

Fynta’s eyebrow shot up again. They hadn’t cuddled with a flick in a long time, but the idea had appeal. “Something with explosions?”

“Naturally,” Aric answered without hesitation. Fynta grinned. “Then it’s a Deal.”

An hour later, with food consumed and weapons cleaned, the commanders of Havoc Squad dozed peacefully to the sounds of kinetic violence emanating from Jorgan’s datapad.


	14. Dec 15: Showing Up Uninvited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Verin and Fynta can not be trusted to make good decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 764
> 
> A/N: I was struggling a bit with this one, so jumped on swtor to run a few heroics and stumbled across one titled Mandalorian Rage on Nar Shaddaa. I had a blast running through that one, and this little drabble was born. Mando’a translations at the bottom.

Fynta loved Nar Shaddaa. She didn’t care that it was a filthy, despot of a moon where only the corrupt succeeded. It was _home_. The neon lights cast a cheery glow on the perpetually dark sky, and the local population variety was richer than even Coruscant could boast. Fynta took a deep breath, not so much reveling in the putrid stench of garbage and vomit, but finding it comforting in her own, strange way.

“I don’t like this,” Jorgan grumbled in Fynta’s ear. For once, the commander of Havoc Squad was going in sans beskar. It wasn’t her first choice, but she needed to blend in with the locals. This couldn’t look like a political hit on any front.

“You worry too much, riduur,” Fynta assured her husband. “I’ll get in, challenge their leader, beat the osik out of him, then be back in time for dinner. Cormac’s cooking, right?”

The Cather muttered low enough that Fynta couldn’t catch the words before snarling his final warning. “Just be careful, I hate when you go in without backup. Next time, tell Balkar to handle his own damned business.”

Fynta smiled to herself as she passed through the gates that served as the unofficial boundary for Clan Sharratt’s territory. Jorgan fretted more than her own mother had. Sure, Fynta could be rash sometimes, but she’d always come out on top. As if to serve as a reminder of how untrue that statement was, her prosthetic left foot caught on a discarded can with a metallic ring. She _almost_ always came out on top.

Picking her way through the territory, Fynta followed directions to where the clan chief waited. He’d issued a challenge to the Republic’s finest to test their mettle against his. The SIS had seen it as the perfect opportunity to get rid of a nuisance. Naturally, Balkar had called Fynta.

A flash of red and black armor caught Fynta’s attention, and she worked her way through the crows of gawkers to find a slight woman in full beskar’gam. Fynta stepped silently beside her, but didn’t speak.

“What are you doing here?” Cinlat asked without turning her head. Fynta smirked, unsurprised that the bounty hunter had picked out her approach.

“Answering the challenge, you?” Fynta replied, keeping her eyes on the current scuffle taking place.

Cinlat sighed. It was nothing more than a subtle movement of her shoulders, but Fynta knew the woman well enough to notice. “I’ve come to watch your fool brother get himself killed.” She nodded further up in the queue to where Verin stood in cobbled together armor, rooting for the man currently getting his face stomped in.

“Where’s his armor?” Fynta asked, wincing at the audible crunch of the man’s nose.

“Where’s yours?” Cinlat countered.

Fynta conceded the point quietly. Cinlat could watch the show without causing a problem, however, another Mandalorian stepping in would be showing allegiance to the Republic, which stood in direct violation of the Mand’alor’s current loyalties. No doubt there were many Mandos in the crowd in plain clothes waiting to earn the bragging rights of taking down Sharratt’s alor, but they wouldn’t show Clan sigils here. It was the same reason she hadn’t worn her own.

“I’m going to go say hi.” Fynta thumped Cinlat’s arm by way of salutation and wove through the masses, closer to the ring of warriors inching towards the battle.

Fynta found her brother and slid into a gap between him and a sturdy looking woman with vibrant purple braids. Verin glanced at her, back to the fight, then at Fynta again.

“Fierfek,” he muttered.

“Good to see you too, ori’vod,” Fynta chuckled.

“Why are you here?” Verin practically growled the words, and Fynta thought he sounded a lot like– “I can’t believe Jorgan let you come here alone.”

Yeah, that’s who. “I notice that your better half isn’t exactly thrilled with your plan either.”

Verin shrugged, turning his eyes back to the fight in time for the chieftain to snap his opponent’s neck. The crowd erupted in cheers, and the next contestant entered the ring of beskar. They watched in silence as another man met a rapid defeat, then applauded the bravery of the Trandoshan who stepped forward to take his place.

“Bet I take him in under five minutes,” Fynta commented casually as the crowd burst into an uproar of abuse when the Trandoshan pulled a hidden knife.

Verin thought for a moment, waiting until the crowd settled before he spoke again. “I’ll do it in three.”

Fynta raised an eyebrow at her brother, then grinned. “You’re on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beskar [BESK-gar] Mandalorian iron  
> riduur [REE-door] husband  
> osik [OH-sik] shit  
> beskar'gam [BES-kar-GAM] armor  
> alor [ah-LOR] leader, chief  
> ori'vod [OH-ree-VOD] big brother


	15. Dec 17: Overcoming An Obstacle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Yuun gets to be the hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 584
> 
> A/N: I love this Gand, and he so rarely gets his moment in the spotlight. Especially when competing with such big personalities as found in Havoc Squad.

Red clay, roughly two hundred meters in both directions, and seventy-two meters high. Fynta sighed and removed her helmet, shutting down her diagnostic’s program. “Well, shab.”

Havoc Squad’s directive lay on the other side of the natural barrier. Due to the wall’s unique mineral composition, it didn’t show up on satellite imagery. Something Dorne apologized for profusely.

“Can’t we just blow a hole through it?” Vik asked, looking towards Fynta with a shrug.

“According to Dorne’s readings, the inside of this thing is hollow,” Jorgan answered, rapping a gauntleted knuckle on the red nuisance. “If we use explosives, we risk bringing down the entire section.”

Cormac took a step away from the wall, while Vik shrugged again. “That doesn’t sound too bad, at least we’d have a way through.”

Fynta reached over and punched the Weequay’s arm. “Yeah, and alert every Imperial to our location. Try again.”

Vik grunted, and Fynta turned her attention to Dorne. The medic stood with her faceplate close enough to the wall that it might scrape if she turned too quickly. Dorne knocked on the clay, pressed her ear against it, then huffed. “No, that won’t do.”

Fynta and Jorgan shared a look, then decided to leave the woman to her work. Fynta walked backwards, her head craned towards the sky, measuring the distance to the top. Jorgan followed, shaking his head. “I know that look, and don’t even think about it.”

Offering an unapologetic smirk, Fynta stopped. “It wouldn’t work anyway. Our rappel lines won’t reach the top, and I doubt anyone except Cormac would have the skill to unhook, then reset the line at the top.” Jorgan didn’t bother hiding his relief. For such a talented sniper, the Cathar had a long list of fears that he’d never admitted to before meeting Fynta. Mostly because he probably didn’t know about them until she came along.

“Could always free climb it,” Cormac suggested, joining his commanders. Jorgan’s jaw went slack, and Cormac chuckled. “Or not. Just a thought.”

“It would take too long to climb,” Fynta answered, going to her husband’s rescue. He’d do it, because Jorgan always put duty above his own discomfort. The ability to face his fears was one of the main reasons that Fynta had fallen for the grumpy shabuir.

Eventually, Vik ambled up as well, and after a while, Elara too. The blonde medic lifted her helmet free and sighed in defeat. “Sir, I haven’t got a clue. Every scenario I’ve formulated is doomed to failure. There is simply no other way around this wall. Perhaps we should return to the Thunderclap and choose a new landing point.”

“That would cost us hours,” Fynta grumbled.

“Understood sir, and I apologize for this–” Elara cut off when Yuun approached.

The Gand’s shoulders were square, his spine straighter than normal. Fynta could tell by the man’s bearing that he was pleased with himself. Yuun stopped in front of his squadmates and folded his hands. “Yuun has found our path.”

Every head turned in the direction the Gand indicated. There, plain as the planet’s three blazing suns, was a tunnel. It sank into the odd formation with a gentle curve of edges worn smooth by years of erosion. “You’ve got to be shabbing kidding me,” Fynta gaped.

Cormac guffawed and slapped Yuun on the back hard enough to stagger the Gand. “Best damn Findsman in the galaxy.” The big man hefted his hand cannon and winked at Fynta. “Come on, boss. Let’s go get our quarry.”


	16. Dec 18: Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fynta does a little soul searching, and isn't surprised by what she finds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 808
> 
> A/N: I thought about this all freaking day and really couldn’t decide what I wanted to do with it. Finally, this little drabble popped into mind. As much as I love her, Fynta really does have her quiet issues.

The clink of glass brought Fynta back to the present, and she opened her eyes to see Balic pouring her another glass. His tan skin looked red from the flush of alcohol, which she also found a funny. A joke about being Zeltros began to form in the back of Fynta’s mind, but it wouldn’t take shape. Eventually, she abandoned it and reached for the glass.

Cormac sighed, flopping back into the chair across from Fynta and stared into his drink. They’d set up in the conference room to avoid bothering the more respectable members of the crew. Havoc Squad still reeled from the loss of so many on Yavin, and no one seemed interested in talking. At least, that’s what Fynta had thought.

“So what about it, boss,” Cormac said without looking up. Fynta raised a brow, realizing that she’s missed his original question. When she didn’t answer, Balic finally met her eyes. He looked embarrassed, and Fynta wondered what he’d asked. 

“Regrets,” Cormac repeated. “This is the part where we get sloshed and share our secrets.”

Fynta drained her decanter, then slapped it back on the table. “I’ll probably regret polishing off Jorgan’s secret stash of whiskey tomorrow,” she muttered.

Cormac chuckled and angled the bottle again. “I’m serious, Fynta. You talk a lot, but you don’t actually say anything.” Balic kept his eyes down while he poured, his hand barely trembling. “Pal up and share a little.”

“You’re killing my hard-won buzz,” Fynta complained. She snatched her glass, sloshing the expensive alcohol onto the table. “You first, big guy.”

Cormac stared at the amber drops and set the bottle down carefully. “Cinlat,” he answered quietly. “I wish I could’ve saved her.”

Fynta paused with the glass a breath away from her lips. It took only a second, then she drained it in two eye-watering gulps. “Cinlat wouldn’t want to be a regret, Cormac.”

The big soldier took a deep breath, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes. “Yeah, fine. Your turn.”

Fynta spun the cup in her hands. How could she explain to this kind-hearted man, her best friend, that she had no regrets? Fynta Wolfe was mando’ade. She lived and died by her decisions. Regrets changed nothing. Wishing that she’d been strong enough to protect her parents wouldn’t bring them back to life. Dwelling on Yavin wouldn’t resurrect her fallen sister or give Verin his wife back. Regrets did nothing but burrow a hole through the person who hoarded them.

Fynta had executed criminals and killed innocents in cold blood. She’d dabbled in slavery, gone to prison for failing a mission, and lost countless allies along the way. Still, she’d do it all again, the exact same way. Prison had opened Theron’s eyes to her inability to continue as a part of Epoch. He’d pulled strings to put Fynta on the front lines where she’d been betrayed by her new squad. That had led to meeting her husband, and every single member of her new aliit. Had she altered her choices anywhere along the way, who knew where she’d have ended up. 

Could Cormac understand that? A man who saw the best in everyone, who worried about doing the right thing and earning his place in the afterlife? No, she imagined not. Cormac was too good of a person to sully himself with Fynta, but he’d never see that. Fynta thought that Jorgan had started to suspect, but he was pragmatic enough not to be bothered.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Cormac stated. He reached across the table and patted Fynta’s hand. “Sorry, boss. My tongue tends to get a little loose after too much drink.” He stood and stretched. “I’d best be getting to bed anyway. Elara will come looking soon.”

Fynta didn’t answer until Cormac squeezed her shoulder. “You good, boss?”

“Yeah, sleep tight.” Fynta slapped his hand a couple of times, then his ass when he turned to exit the room. Cormac laughed, staggering slightly, then vanished from sight. Fynta grabbed the bottle again and tipped the rest of its contents into her cup. Jorgan would probably be put out that she’d finished his birthday present.

Blinking at the chrono, Fynta realized that she only had three hours until they reached Coruscant. She needed to sober up. As she stood, Fynta knocked over the empty glass and cursed. She needed to swing by the Dealer’s Den too, preferably before Jorgan realized she’d drank all of his whiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I forgot to post this last night, so here it is today.


	17. Dec 19: Corrupted/Turned To The Dark Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of those choices that Fynta refuses to regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 626
> 
> A/N: I’m off work today, so that means I don’t have to cram all my writing and editing into tonight. :D This is a sneak peak into the next chapter of _The Art of Being Invisible_. (I haven’t forgotten about that fic, promise.)

Fynta stood in the midst of the carnage. At her feet lay the broken bodies of men, women, and children. They’d been harmless, unarmed, and she’d blasted the osik out of them without hesitation. Burned features blurred into a mass of greying flesh and montrals, nothing to identify them as sentient beings left.

The soldier to Fynta’s right bent to rifle through the pockets of one of the nameless dead. He let out a sound of triumph and emerged with a wallet. Fynta looked away, she preferred to see this instance through the haze of denial, and any personal effects added contrast that threatened to break her cover.

“Merc, here’s your cut.” Another Imperial tossed something into Fynta’s hands. She caught it on instinct, hiding her revulsion behind the cheap durasteel mask that the SIS had provided as part of her uniform.

The cred chip, still smattered with blood, felt like lead in Fynta's palm. Offering the bonus a cursory glance to ensure that she portrayed the proper amount of interest, Fynta pocketed it. Later, she’d toss it to some homeless beggar. Blood money should go to those who bled, not the ones who spilled it.

“Is this all of them?” Fynta asked, her voice mechanical through the filters of her helmet. It was just as well that the voice didn’t belong to her, neither did her body in that moment. She’d been bought and paid for by the Empire to root out the resistance on a backwater planet that didn’t amount to a hill of denta beans in the galaxy. Were it not for the fact that she needed more work from the man who’d signed the contract, this might have broken her.

Fynta’s target was a general who had a bad habit of killing Republic soldiers en mass. Naturally, he was a cautious man. Fynta couldn’t approach him directly, so she’d used one of her brother’s long forgotten contacts to get in on the ground floor. After a few more successful missions, Fynta would be able to gut the shabiur herself. But, he needed to trust her enough to meet in person, first. Fynta couldn’t accomplish that without getting her hands dirty, and these refugees were the price.

“There’s word that another nest has recently taken root on the planet,” a soldier answered, his accent almost too think for Fynta to understand. He tipped his hand, hand to an earpiece while he listened for new instructions.

Fynta curled her lips at the phrase, as if they were hunting a patch of vermin, and she was their scent hound. Luckily, her helmet hid the slip. She'd known what would most likely be required of her during this op, and had chosen to take a page from Cinat's book. Fynta's helmet  _never_  came off.

Imperial faceplates turned towards one another, and the captain spoke up. “Our satellites scanned a shuttle landing in the northern quadrant. We're the closest unit, so it falls to us.”

Fynta mulled it over. The northern quadrant was mostly ice caverns and wasteland. If she were trying to throw someone off her trail, that would be a likely refuge. Fynta’s stomach knotted with the knowledge that her job was far from over. She had the skill to find the new cell, and she would. The lives of thousands of soldiers compared to a few hundred was acceptable in Fynta's eyes. So long as she refused to dwell on it.

Slinging her rifle over one shoulder, Fynta motioned for the men to move out. “Alright, let’s find our next target, boys.”

_Soon_ , her battered conscience whispered,  _soon this will be worth it. Your soul for the lives of those soldiers._  She was going to the void anyway, right?


	18. Dec 20: Learning A New Skill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorgan is full of surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 870

“Come on, Jorgan.” Fynta stood in front of him, hands on hips. “I’ll only bite if you ask nicely.”

The Cathar raised a brow at the come on, then went back to reading his datapad. “I don’t think so.”

Fynta huffed, puffing a breath of air through her bangs, and crossed her arms. Jorgan kept his eyes on the datapad, the tick in his jaw being the only indication of how badly she must be irritating him. Switching tactics, Fynta leaned forward to brace her hands on the armrests of his chair. “Scared?”

It was an unfair move, and Fynta knew it. Jorgan’s eyes flicked to the low cut neckline of her shirt, then directly into her eyes. So far, all Fynta had shared with her XO were a couple of stolen kisses. He maintained a professional distance, and she’d sworn to let him work through their highly unsanctioned relationship in his own time. Still, Fynta liked to tease, and it was in her nature to fight dirty.

After a brief stare down, Jorgan snarled. “Fine.” He tossed the datapad onto the chair beside him and stood so abruptly that Fynta almost stumbled backward.

Offering a grin, Fynta clapped her hands and headed for the cargo bay. Jorgan followed, heavy footsteps a testament to his annoyance. “Don’t look so smug,” he offered when Fynta glanced over her shoulder.

Once in the cargo bay, Fynta stood in the center of the room. She held both arms out, then cleared her throat when Jorgan didn’t take the hint. Rolling his eyes, the Cathar stepped closer, hesitating only a little before resting his palm on her hip, and taking her hand in the other. Cormac could have stood in the space between them and had room to move.

Sighing, Fynta tugged Jorgan closer until their bodies were nearly flush. “Breath,” she offered, and bit back a laugh when a ragged breath escaped his lungs. “That’s better. Now, you said you had some experience?”

Jorgan nodded. “I escorted a girl to a dance in school.”

Fynta chewed the inside of her mouth to avoid grinning too broadly. She’d been forced to take proper lessons when she worked with the SIS. Often times, a female agent’s best work was done on the arm of a dignitary at a fancy party. Given Fynta’s proclivity for violence and large explosions, she’d never put that part of her training into action. Still, she enjoyed the simplistic elegance of dancing with a partner, and there was no one else that she wanted to pair with. Jorgan was her match in every way.

Pressing a button on her wrist controller, Fynta started them with a smooth rhythm that would allow Jorgan to sway until he became more comfortable with their proximity. He looked at the intercom, then the door, and lastly, at her. “A bit slow, don’t you think?”

Fynta didn’t miss the smirk on Jorgan’s lips, and accepted his challenge. The next song had more beat, and Fynta couldn’t help but move her hips in time. She knew the music well enough, and let her guard down so that she could enjoy spending time with the man she hoped would become her lover.

Without warning, Fynta’s vision blurred as Jorgan spun her out to arm’s length, then snapped her back like a whip. Fynta’s breath caught when she slammed into his chest, and the damned man actually chuckled. Jorgan righted Fynta, his feet moving fluidly as he led her around the room.

Fynta regained her bearings towards the end of the song, staring at Jorgan in shock as he continued to move with a grace and confidence that she’d only seen on the battlefield. As the music reached its crescendo, Jorgan’s hand slid to the base of Fynta’s spine. Before she could tease him about the brash placement, he dipped her back. Fynta yelped and clung to Jorgan’s shoulders in a fashion that was anything but elegant.

Flipping her upright again, Jorgan offered a sharp-toothed grin. Fynta gaped, not bothering to hide her shock. “Where the hell did that come from?” Eyes narrowed, she attempted a glare. “You said one dance, limited experience.”

Jorgan’s lips closed slowly to reveal a cocky, half smirk. “I said that I’d taken a girl to a dance, never said I didn’t know how to.” His hands remained on Fynta’s body, and she was a breath away from kissing him, when Jorgan released her and stepped back.

“Hey look at this, Elara,” Cormac called down the hallway from his position in the door. “The boss’s started a ball. What do you say doll, wanna’ dance?”

Jorgan cleared his throat and widened the gap between them even as Dorne rounded the corner. The medic looked at the speakers, still humming away, and smiled. “I accept, Balic.”

Fynta watched the couple scoot around the floor, Elara offering tips every time Cormac stepped on her toes. Fynta snickered.

The air moved behind Fynta, closer than it had been a moment ago. She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know who it was. Jorgan had a presence that she’d recognize anywhere. He leaned closer, warm breath tickling her neck as he whispered, “Thanks for the dance.”


	19. Dec 22: Moving Into Their New Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Jorgan finally has a place to call his own, and Fynta can’t take it seriously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 807
> 
> A/N: Initially, I was going to make this about Fynta’s purchase of her secret apartment in Nar Shaddaa and all the hoops she jumped through to keep it off the grid. But this sounded like more fun. Side note, I adore my Nar Shaddaa stronghold, even if it’s only at 36% completion. :P

Jorgan stood in the entryway, taking in the familiar surroundings with new eyes. He hadn’t had a _home_ since leaving his parents to join the army. Now, he’d committed to paying half the bills of a mercenary hideout.

Slipping in behind him, Fynta plucked the duffel out of Jorgan’s fingers and danced away. She enjoyed teasing him about his lack of civilian attire, though he hadn’t known about her vast wardrobe until they’d begun sleeping together.

Fynta dropped the pack onto one of the dark sofas, the very one she’d finally broken down his last defenses on, and smiled. “Welcome home, riduur.”

Though Mando'a would never be Jorgan's default, that one was his favorite. Husband. He was someone’s _husband_ now. The realization still left him breathless. Fynta had nearly been killed only a few days after they spoke their vows. Then, a year of intensive physical therapy while she relearned out to walk and fight. Finally, the couple had a few days of quiet to let themselves enjoy being married.

Jorgan remembered the conversation about this place. He didn’t want to leave his clothes at someone else's house, no matter their marital status. To Jorgan’s pleasant surprise, Fynta had been enthusiastic about the idea of sharing her home. The conversations with credit launderers, and the sheer number of places his paycheck would be funneled through, had been dizzying, though.

“Not having second thoughts, I hope.” Fynta raised an eyebrow, and Jorgan realized that he’d neglected to answer her earlier greeting. “After all, there is no word for divorce in Catharese, right?”

Sliding his arms around his wife, Jorgan smirked. “No, just taking it in.”

“You realize that nothing has changed since the last time we were here, right?” Fynta punched Aric’s chest playfully before spinning out of his grasp.

While technically true, Jorgan felt that everything had changed. His name, albeit an alias, was now tied to a permanent address. One that he shared with his wife. Aric let his thoughts wander towards the future. Would they raise children here? That thought sat heavy in his stomach. While Fynta called this moon home, and Jorgan no longer despised it, Nar Shaddaa was no place to raise a respectable family.

The thought of future children, however unlikely, pulled the Cathar’s attention to the vast array of weapons cases placed strategically around the apartment. He’d lovingly joked about teaching their children how to fire a blaster once, but would it be wise to have so many at the mercy of small, inexperienced hands?

Not to mention the fact that the majority of these had been procured through less than legal means. Cinlat and Verin had used Fynta’s hideout as a safehouse, and no doubt a lot of the collected blades bore the blood of their masters.

A pressure between Aric’s brows drew him from those morbid thoughts. He blinked a couple of times to find Fynta’s amused expression staring back at him, her finger placed squarely against his forehead. “You’re overthinking things, cyare.”

Taking her wrist in his hand, Jorgan kissed Fynta’s palm. “It’s been my job for years to examine every possible outcome. That’s a hard habit to kick.”

Fynta offered a wicked grin, slowly rising onto her toes to kiss the bottom of Jorgan’s chin. “Perhaps you need a distraction.” Jorgan chuckled half-heartedly, but Fynta wouldn't be denied.

Dropping onto flat feet again, Fynta tugged Jorgan through the apartment by the front of his shirt. “We can reorganize things tomorrow, but you’re not allowed to touch the kitchen. That’s my domain.”

Knowing that he could change the layout of the apartment set Jorgan’s mind at ease, and ironically, quelled the desire to do so. He guessed that Fynta knew it would, but appreciated her willingness to let him make his mark on her territory.

It wasn’t until they’d turned down the hallway towards their bedroom that Jorgan realized where Fynta was leading him. “What are you up to?” He asked suspiciously, though not fighting her hold.

Fynta threw a coy smile over her shoulder, dark blue eyes dancing with mischief. “I’m taking you to the one room that I know you’ll want to leave exactly as it is.”

The door hissed, a quiet complain about not being used for so long, to reveal a spacious bedroom with a large bed. Apart from an armoire and dresser, nothing else decorated the sparse room. Fynta had set it up to allow the neon lights from the adverts outside to play along the walls.

Fynta released Jorgan’s shirt and turned a circle in the middle of the room. Her eyes met his again, and she sighed. “Although, I suppose we could start tonight.”

Jorgan laughed at the mock resignation in Fynta’s voice. Instead of attempting outdo her with words, Jorgan crossed the room and swept his wife into his arms.


	20. Dec 24: You Should Have Listened To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Theron and Fynta are at it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 620
> 
> A/N: This prompt just screamed Theron/Fynta. It’s only Christmas Eve here, but Happy Holidays to all of you ahead of me.

“Why do I let you talk me into these kriffing things?” Theron growled, holding onto Fynta’s waist while she swerved dangerously between trees.

“Duck.” Fynta’s warning nearly came too late, and Theron let out a yelp of surprise as a low hanging limb grazed his back. Their speeder bike jarred violently, and Fynta cursed. “You remember how to ditch, right?”

Theron groaned inwardly. “It’s sad that these questions no longer surprise me coming from you.”

Fynta’s shoulders shook with laughter, and Theron wanted to strangle the damn woman. Only she could find their current situation amusing. “Get ready, Shan. Go!”

Theron threw himself off the speeder and tucked his limbs as close to his body as possible. The ground rose to meet him at an unhealthy speed, driving the air from his lungs. When his vision cleared, it was to see the tail end of the speeder disappearing into the direction they’d come with Fynta still astride.

Standing, Theron dusted himself off and checked for injury, scowling at the torn sleeve of his favorite jacket. While he’d expected the hard-headed soldier to follow, it didn’t surprise him in the slightest that Fynta had turned back to face their adversaries. The fact that the speeder had been spewing smoke and fluids only made the challenge more fun for his Mandalorian protege.

Theron leaned against a tree to catch his breath and check to see if any of his electronics had survived the fall. Luckily, his implants were still intact, and half the screen on his datapad worked. It was enough to reorient himself with their surroundings and have an escape route planned for when Fynta decided to finally get her ass back here.

A loud crack pulled Theron’s attention away from scanning to reveal a fireball rising in the distance. Theron assumed that meant that Fynta had put whatever hair-brained plan she’d concocted into play. He wondered idly how successful it had been, then marveled at the realization that he wasn’t concerned about her safety.

“Am I that much of a bastard now, or have I just gotten used to her?” Theron asked allowed.

“Definitely that much of a bastard,” Fynta answered as she strolled through the brush. “Got us a way out yet, Spook?”

Theron rolled his eyes and angled his head north. “Republic outpost about thirty klicks from here.”

Fynta winced, then covered it with a cheeky grin. Theron narrowed his eyes. A smile that wide meant that she was in pain, but he knew better than to ask. Fynta would only become more intolerable if he showed concern for her wellbeing. So, Theron prodded by other means. “You know, this wouldn’t have happened if you’d just listened to me in the first place.”

Fynta snorted, and Theron watched her body language. She didn’t grimace this time, nor did her hand rest unconsciously on any hidden injury. With a quiet sigh of relief, Theron deduced that Fynta was merely bruised, nothing terribly serious. Still, he’d keep an eye on her while they walked.

“If I listened to you all the time, Theron,” Fynta enunciated his name like a petulant little sister. “Then we’d never have any fun.”

Theron started north, hooking his datapad to his belt to avoid damaging it more. Fynta followed, her gait strong. “I didn’t say all the time, but maybe just once. In times of crisis.” Or when he said, _Fytna don’t_ , that would be a good place to start.

Fynta chuckled, looking towards the south-east where smoke still billowed into the sky, then back at Theron. “I think we did just fine.” The worst part was, Theron couldn’t argue. Though, all seven of the Corellian hells would freeze over before he ever admitted it.


	21. Dec 27: First Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Fynta is forced to face a brutal galaxy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 583
> 
> A/N: This moment in Fynta’s past has always been one of the biggest of her life. It shaped her as a person, and set the tone for how she approached the galaxy from that moment on. Mando’a translations at the bottom.

Fynta ran, her brother’s voice echoing in her ears as he yelled for her not to look back, to get to the ship. There was a blaster in her hand, she knew how to use it, but it still felt alien. She’d only passed the Verd’goten a month ago. There was still so much for her to learn. Too much. Fynta was terrified.

Noisy boots gained on her, splashing in the mud as a male voice panted in pursuit. Instinct took over, and the young Mandalorian dove into the thick grass. Fynta’s armor sank in the mud as the rain plastered blonde locks of loose hair to her face. The boots stopped, two sets of them, allowing her to hear the dregs of a muffled conversation that Fynta couldn’t make out over the pounding of her heart.

Verin was no longer shouting, and Fynta feared he’d joined their parents in the afterlife. Maybe it would be quick, maybe the men would shoot her in the head when they found her instead of taking her hostage. Fynta didn’t know where the rest of her clan had scattered. They had been camped on a victorious battlefield, attacked so suddenly that no one had raised the alarm until it was too late. Fynta had awoken to her father’s warm blood splashed across her face.

The squelch of boots pulled Fynta back to the present, she pressed a small hand over her mouth to keep the squeak of terror from giving her position away. Raising her eyes, Fynta saw the T-shaped visor scanning just above her, then squeezed them shut as the rain blurred her vision.

“K'olar, ad’ika,” the man’s almost robotic voice called. “Jurkadir vi naasad.”

Another other man chuckled, and Fynta decided it was an unencouraging sound. She hunkered deeper into the muck and held her breath. Maybe they’d pass by if she could remain motionless a little longer.

The warrior who’d spoken turned to hiss an insult at his partner. Then, Fynta heard the unmistakable sound of beskar colliding with beskar, followed by the grunts of grappling men. Prying one eye open, she was in time to have mud sloshed into her mouth and nose as the flailing boots stamped close to her face. She shut her eyes again.

The scuffle stopped, no blasters were discharged, only the thud of a body hitting the ground. “Fynta,” Verin called, his voice hoarse.

The girl opened her eyes again, looking up to see her brother’s familiar green basker’gam. He spun around, calling her name again. Fynta pushed to her feet and ran towards him. Verin reacted to the movement, aiming his blaster at the new threat, before allowing his shoulders to sag in relief.

Fynta slowed, taking in the two dead Mandalorians, the mud darkening as their blood mingled with the sodden soil. “You killed them?” Both men were much older than her brother. Members of a clan that should have been their ally.

Verin dropped to one knee, placing gloved hands on her shoulders. “Fynta, we need to get to my fighter.”

Dark blue eyes stared into his, and Verin’s hands tightened on Fynta’s shoulders to accent their urgency. Fynta nodded, accepting his helmet as he slipped it over her head. “Good girl, let’s go.” Taking her hand, they ran, leaving the carnage of war behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> K'olar, ad’ika: Come out, little one  
> verd’goten: traditional rite of passage in Mandalorian culture in which a Mandalorian youth was accepted as an adult.   
> Jurkadir vi naasad: No one will hurt you


	22. Dec 28: Getting Into Trouble/Breaking The Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fynta will never, not infuriate Jorgan. For some reason, he loves her anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 713
> 
> A/N: I really just wanted to con Jorgan into breaking the law, because I adore that irritable Cathar.

“Target in sight,” Jorgan murmured over the comms. A familiar chill ran the length of Fynta’s spine at the raspy quality it took on during an operation. She pulled her thoughts back to the mission with effort. “Looks like three on the door, maybe another dozen inside.”

Fynta peeked over the container that served as her shield, then into the rafters where Jorgan perched. The Cathar laid completely still, nearly invisible when sealed into his armor. “Eyes on the target, woman,” he responded, and Fynta was sure that she heard a smirk in his voice.

“Just staying aware of my surroundings, riduur,” Fynta responded, shaking her ass enough to warrant a chuckle from her husband.

“I’ll drop the two on the left of the entrance, you take the third,” Jorgan said, staying on mission despite Fynta’s attempts to distract him.

Fynta huffed as she raised her rifle. “Stingy much?” Jorgan ignored her, giving the countdown to engage. Fynta steadied her breathing and found the target down her scope. She counted heartbeats, the world dwindling to a single point of focus. Jorgan gave the command, and Fynta squeezed the trigger.

The man’s head snapped back in a spray of crimson at the same time as Jorgan’s first target. The third fell not far behind. “Go now,” he ordered, and Fynta broke cover and ran for the entrance. She barrelled through the door, opening fire on the group of men who’d only just drawn their weapons. Having no immediate cover, Fynta trusted her armor to hold while she fired on automatic. The lightly armored thugs scrambled for cover, but didn’t move fast enough. Fynta only stopped when she was certain that no one was moving.

Jorgan jogged in behind Fynta and inspected her armor. He ran a gloved finger along a new scorch mark in her pauldron and shook his head. Fynta grinned behind her faceplate. “Clear.”

The Cathar snorted as he took in the room of corpses. “You think? Come on, let’s finish the job.”

Fynta took point, clearing the few rooms in the small complex, while Jorgan watched their back. Eventually, she found a storage room that held promise and strode towards the crate that she’d come for.

“That it?” Jorgan asked from his position at the door.

Fynta shot the locking mechanism instead of taking the time to slice it and lifted the lid enough to peek inside. “Yep,” she answered with a grin. “This is the stuff.”

“Good, let’s grab a hoverlift and get this–”

“No need,” Fynta interrupted, tipping the lid back and reaching inside. “We only need a few.”

Jorgan turned towards Fynta in question, then stalled when she came up with her prize. “What is that?” He asked in a wary tone.

Fynta tossed the bottle towards her husband, and he caught it on instinct. Though she couldn’t see his face, Fynta was fairly certain it held a confused expression. “Happy anniversary, love.”

“This is Corellian Whiskey,” Jorgan answered as if he hadn’t heard her. His helmet lifted towards Fynta. “I thought we were after improvised explosives.”

“About that,” Fynta began, pulling a sticky grenade from her belt. “Cormac was supposed to accompany me on this little errand, but the big di’kut had to go and get himself sick.” Jorgan sucked in a breath in preparation to argue, but Fynta cut him off. “Now hold on. I didn’t completely lie. There are dirty bombs here, they were just the icing.”

Fynta slapped the grenade onto another crate. “See, we’re still serving the Republic.”

“But, you originally came for the whiskey,” Jorgan countered, waving the bottle at Fynta in irritation. “You came here to steal, and you dragged me into it with you.”

Fynta sighed. “Which is why it was supposed to be Cormac.” When a growl rumbled over the comms, Fynta armed the bomb and started towards her husband with another two bottles of his favorite alcohol. “We’re stealing from thieves. It really doesn’t count.”

“Fynta, you know that’s not how–” Jorgan’s words cut off again when a bolt hit the door frame above his head. “Damn, reinforcements. This isn’t over.”

“Of course not, love,” Fynta answered, placing the bottles in Jorgan’s backpack and patting the top of his helmet. “But, we’ll have one hell of an anniversary.”


	23. Dec 31: Thank You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tanno Vik tries to help in a way that only he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 688
> 
> A/N: I don’t write Vik enough, and he has so much potential.

“Where is he,” Fynta shouted as she stormed onto the ship. She wanted blood and knew exactly who to exact it from. When she got her hands on Tanno Vik, she’d flay each of his head tendrils one by one, then–

“What happened to you?” Jorgan asked, stopping halfway out of the armory. He held a rag in one hand and a blaster barrel in the other. Judging by the look on his face, Fynta looked every bit as singed as she felt.

“Where. Is. Vik.” Fynta glared around the room. She knew the hut’uun was onboard, and he could probably hear every word. Putting her hands on her hips, Fynta turned a slow circle. “Get out here and face me you lousy chakaar!”

Jorgan glanced over his shoulder, then back at Fynta. “Want to talk about it?”

“No,” Fynta growled. She wanted to pound her fist into Vik’s stubby face until her ears stopped ringing.

Jorgan tucked the barrel under his arm, then flipped the rag over his shoulder. Carefully, as if approaching a rabid animal, he put his hands on Fynta’s shoulder. “Start from the beginning, and where is C2?”

Fynta snorted a laugh. She’d met Balkar for drinks to discuss their upcoming, off the books, mission. She’d taken the droid as a chaperone to shut Jorgan up since he couldn’t say the man’s name without snarling.

Heaving a sigh, Fynta dropped her arms and met Jorgan’s eyes. “The cantina was crowded, so we decided to use C2 as a distraction while he hammered out the details in the alley.” Jorgan frowned, and Fynta winced at her poor choice of words.

“The alley?” Jorgan asked, brow ridge lifting in irritation.

Fynta bristled, then pushed on with her story instead of arguing a Cathar’s jealousy. “We never made it that far because the fierfeking droid exploded.” Anger swelled in her chest, renewing her thirst for blood. “Vik!”

“Yeah, boss?” The Weequay appeared in the doorway that led to the barracks with a self-satisfied grin. “How’d the meeting go?”

Jorgan grabbed Fynta’s arm before she could go for her blaster. “What the hell is wrong with you? That stunt blew our cover and nearly took Balkar’s hands off.” She stalked forward and squared up with the larger Weequay.

Vik managed to keep a straight face, though his clear eyes twinkled with an amusement that made her reconsider not shooting him. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t launch your shebs out the airlock?”

Vik crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Simple, I helped you.”

Fynta was rarely rendered speechless, but Vik had managed. “You–what?”

“Both of you, actually,” Vik continued, offering a disconcerting wink to Jorgan. When Fynta made an unconvinced noise, he continued. “From the way I hear it, that Balkar guy has a problem with boundaries. The furball’s always complaining about it.”

Fynta opened her mouth to argue, but Vik held a finger up. “I did Jorgan a solid by making sure that that Balkar didn’t get too,” the Weequay paused to clear his throat in an effort to hide his laughter. “Inappropriate.”

Vik managed a somber expression, keeping his eyes on Fynta despite the crowd that he’d drawn. “Besides, I did you a favor, too. You’ve always hated those droids.”

Cormac coughed, then darted from the room before anyone could lash out at him for losing his composure. Dorne raised an eyebrow, and Fynta wondered if the medic would be interested in holding Vik down while Fynta pounded his face in. Meanwhile, Jorgan ground his teeth.

Fynta stared at Vik, trying to decide whether or not to make good on her threat. One corner of her mouth twitched, and she finally gave up. “Vik, you’ve got some gett’se, I’ll give you that.”

The Weequay chuckled, until Fynta clouted him on the ear. “But, if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll shove them so far up your shebs that you’ll never have to worry about a dry spell again.”

Vik’s face split into a wide grin, and he leaned down enough to put his face even with Fynta’s. “You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the prompt says, THANK YOU all for following along with these fun little drabbles. I’ve really enjoyed writing them and chatting both on here and Tumblr. It's been a blast.


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